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One might hide inside a room of stone,
and shut close all the windows tight.
One might slide under the blanket
or even crawl under one's own bed.
One might hold one's breath
and shut one's eyes too.
But what do you do,
when the demon you are hiding from
breathes within you?

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I sat, in the midst of it all -
the coarse paper, the slippery nib of the pen,
the clumsy room, the whirling blades of the fan, with a head cracked within;
flowing freely as a into a desert,
making and melting to the breath of the wind;
a land where the albinal rainbow shines bright and hides no pot of treasure at its end,
but a tree with its arms spread out.
I lay next to it, listening to the desert howl my name...

- M

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Cracking open, hurts;
But maybe,
Just maybe, it is worth it.

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It stands there, in the little spaces between the leaves in that bush - every bush I pass by. It stands there "still", staring at me through its pale eyes.
No I haven't seen it. Never can. But I know it. Is that strange?

No sound.

There is almost never any sound, and yet, sometimes I must wake up with a muddy back, a body body and my eyes blinded by sunlight.

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What is life if not the journey itself?
Just a wait for an ending
into a something.

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The day is done now.
The sun sleeps.
The clock continues ticking.

The sky, sometimes blue, sometimes of pinkish hue,
now, glimmers with sparkling sand
stuck on its black shawl,
from the day's work and play.

The clock continues ticking.

Blades circle the head of the fan,
like planets around the sun,
just faster, while
every breathe slows -
slows and grows deeper, and calmer.
Only the lizard speaks.

That, and the clock;
that continues ticking.

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An empty pull in the chest.
Like, there were a blackhole dragging all my being into that incomprehensible, indiscernible, and overwhelming - an overwhelming feeling of nothingness.
Is it even possible, I wonder; to feel nothing, intensely.
How can one really feel the feeling of numbness, so wholly; completely?
That cold void sucking life in, into a hopeless curve, bending lifelessly into oneself!
A stagnation that runs wildly through the being, till one finally drops...
no, not "dead", but into a pause...

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It is astonishing, how strong, yet wondrously fragile our roots are.

It always, starts with a little dancing to the breeze - the gentle swaying to the right, then left, like the ticking of a pendulum on those older clocks. Then, a blissful giving in to the force of the wind - the taking in of the moment, in complete surrender. No questions. None.
And then, before one can know, a crack. Oh! A breaking into two. The losing of what it "was" - the amputation of the self, followed by bellowing sighs of "Who am I?"s...

Perhaps, however, there isn't much difference between those wrecked trees, the torn lizard, and a broken person. We always, seem to grow back...

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How much effort
does one need, to speak?
How much, to express?
To confess?

How much courage
does one need to speak,
express, confess
to a loved one?

To oneself?

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